Madame Tussauds, London
Tim Dowling
I went to Madame Tussauds once in 1998, after I read that Augusto Pinochet always visited the famous wax museum whenever he came to London to buy arms. I had often seen the huge queues which seemed to be perpetually wrapped around the building, but on this particular afternoon it wasn't that busy. It seemed like a fun way to get inside the head of a murderous dictator.
Inside I found a group of eastern Europeans staring in perfect perplexity at a statue of Chris Evans. My bemusement more or less matched theirs. I wandered along the heavily trafficked carpet, looking at frozen TV celebs and world leaders and thinking, why does Pinochet like it here? Every tourist in the place wore the wan smile of someone gamely trying not to feel swindled.
It's hard to describe what's so horrible about Madam Tussauds. It's not just the stupidity of paying to see a waxen Tom Cruise, but the indignity of having to wait your turn. Not long ago I agreed to take my eldest son there, but when I saw the queue and the prices (a child's ticket is £18.99), I abandoned the idea and took him to the Soane Museum instead, which I loved and he hated, which is how it should be.